


Rossi's Books

by treacherousdoctors



Category: I Was Born for This - Alice Oseman
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bookstore, How Do I Tag, M/M, Pre-Canon, They're 13/14
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:28:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25867423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/treacherousdoctors/pseuds/treacherousdoctors
Summary: Lister goes to a tiny independent bookshop in order to avoid people from school.Jimmy works in a tiny independent bookshop.... This is unlikely to go well.
Relationships: Allister "Lister" Bird/Jimmy Kaga-Ricci
Comments: 59
Kudos: 64





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> HI I HAVE NO CLUE HOW TO TITLE THINGS OR TAG THINGS OR SUMMARISE THINGS BUT HIIIII I'VE BEEN WRITING AN AU AND THIS IS IT
> 
> this is going to be fairly casual and not massively plot-heavy, it's just kind of fun to write something that isn't so reliant on canon
> 
> the boys are 13/14 in this and it won't match up with canon from 'meeting lister', i don't think there's anything yet that will need content warnings but please let me know if there's anything you think should be tagged ! ((apologies for any weird formatting, i typed this on my phone))

**LISTER**

I'm met with instant regret the moment I walk into the bookshop.

The reason I chose this place rather than the big Waterstone's in town is that I was sure there was no risk of bumping into anybody from school. I mean, what self-respecting teenager would be caught dead in a little independent bookshop owned by old people on a Saturday afternoon? Please note: that statement does not, under any circumstances, apply to me - partly because I am the main character of my own life story and refuse to be tied down by unwritten social rules, but mostly because "self-respecting" is _far_ from how any rational human being would describe me.

I try mostly to avoid people my age, both in school and out, because 1. it makes me seem cool and aloof, which lends itself nicely to the bad boy loner image I'm attempting to cultivate before I start year ten in a few months, and 2. letting anybody see what my life is really like outside of rumour will ruin any remaining hope of ever being respected.

I know what my classmates think of me - that I'm angry. impulsive, disengaged, prone to fights and averse to homework. They think I hate school and everyone in it, and that I'm an unhinged freak that would punch a teacher if given half a chance. Some of this is true, most of it isn't. I don't mind letting the rumours fester, though, because it's way cooler than the truth.

The classmate in question, the reason I'm debating bolting from the store completely, is a boy from my year whose name I've never quite caught. He's known for being one of year nine's resident music prodigies, him and some other guy, whose name I also forget. I mean, it's not as if they're worth remembering - I try not to engage with teachers' pets, which these boys indisputably are. They're a little bit hard to miss, constantly walking around with instrument cases bigger than they are. The one in the store is the shorter one, with the guitar case covered in stickers of bands I really like. I've noticed his guitar case more than I have his face - he likes music I didn't realise other kids my age had even heard of.

If he was a customer, I'd just slip out and hide at the bus stop down the road until I saw him leave. Unfortunately for me, he has an apron and name badge that announce to the world that he is an employee (which seems weird when he's no older than fourteen, but whatever), making him unavoidable. 

I pretend not to notice him as I make my way over to the shelf I'm looking for, but I can feel his eyes on my back. I've been _spotted._

The book I'm looking for is over in the back of the store. I noticed it a few months ago, on an afternoon when I came in to escape the rain. Ever since, I've been saving up. I don't get a lot of money - all I have is the 50p change from my weekly bus pass, or whatever is left over from my lunch money at the end of each school week. I pick up loose change from the floor of the bus, as well as stuff people lose in the changing rooms after P.E., or leave behind in the self serve machines at Tesco. All in all, my £9.99 is weighing down the pockets of my jeans in silvers and coppers. This would get embarrassing enough by itself, but it's a million times worse if I'm going to be served by someone I have to face next week.

Part of me wants to leave. I may not have self-respect, but I _do_ have shame, and the last thing I want is pity from some fucking _nerd_ that will go around telling stories about me being embarrassingly poor come Monday morning. (He wouldn't be wrong to think I'm poor, but I don't want the whole school finding out.)

Annoyingly, though, this is my only chance to come into the shop. My grandparents are visiting tomorrow, which confines me to the house, and next weekend is lost to a school trip. The week after is half term, which means I won't have a bus pass. If I don't buy this now, I won't get the chance for another three weeks at least. Plus, chances are that if Guitar Boy is working today, he'll be working every weekend for the foreseeable future.

I'm just going to have to swallow what's left of my pride.

He's standing behind the counter when I go up to pay. His name tag reads Jimmy, which rings a bell. His eyes go wide as he sees me, and I do my best to seem unfazed. As I put the book down, I have to fight a blush.

_Cooking on a Bootstrap: Over 100 Simple, Budget Recipes._

It's not shameful on its own, wanting to cook. It's more the inescapable stigma of the word 'budget', the fact it's clearly a recipe book for someone without much money. I need the book - Mum's just got a second job, which isn't a bad thing, but it means most days she's out of the house from 7 am til 11 pm, and any meal I don't get from school has to be prepared by me. I've been basically living off tinned foods and toast for the last few weeks, and the novelty of freedom wears off pretty quickly.

"Would you like to buy any stationery with that?"

"Nope."

"How about a reusable Rossi's Books canvas tote for £5?"

"Nope."

"Would you like to make a charitable donation to—"

"Can I just buy my fucking book, please?"

I didn't plan to snap at him, and I do feel guilty when I realise how fucking _terrified_ he looks, but I just want to pay and leave (and possibly evaporate into nothingness so I never have to face this boy again).

"£9.99, please." He says with a weak smile.

I can no longer stop my face flushing dark red with shame. Usually, when I have to pay vast sums using pocket change, it's to a self-service checkout, or at the very least some middle-aged stranger I'll never have to see again. It's embarrassing, hauntingly so.

Some people will never know the ritual humiliation of having to stand awkwardly, just watching and waiting, as someone has to painstakingly count through a pocketful of silvers one by one. It's a hundred times worse when, at the last minute, they tell you that you're short by something like 7p. I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy.

After an agonising few minutes, he shuts the till and hands me a receipt which I snatch almost violently.

"Thank you for shopping at Rossi's Books." He says in a voice mixing typical customer service sweetness with confusion and a bit of fear. I barely hear him, though, because I'm near-on _running_ out of the store.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is chapter two, it's just chapter one except jimmy has opinions this time ! again, no content warnings that i can think of but pls lmk if any r needed <3

**JIMMY**

It’s just me and Alex in the shop today. Usually, there are at least three members of staff around when I’m in because, at thirteen, I’m technically too young to be working there at all. I get away with it because the local Italian community is fairly small, so Gianni and Lucia are long-time friends of my grandparents’. Gianni, a kind man in his late sixties, calls me ‘his little apprentice’, and pays me minimum wage to help out on weekends and twice a week after school. The money goes to my guitar lessons.

It doesn’t really bother me, spending so much time here. It’s not as if there’s much else to do when I’m not in school - my one friend, Rowan, will sometimes come to sit in the corner and read while I stack shelves, and spending time with him is really the only other thing I ever do.

The downside to being one of only two employees this afternoon is that I have t man the till if we get any customers. There have only been a few so far, but every one has made me nervous. For all the school concerts I’ve done, I’m really not a confident person. I’m better at playing the guitar than I am speaking to people - Stage Jimmy and Real Jimmy are two entirely different people.

I’m about an hour from the end of my shift when the bell above the door dings. I curse under my breath. Upon seeing who the customer is, I curse again.

Lister Bird.

I don’t know him well, but I know him. He probably doesn’t have a clue who I am, and that’s okay by me. I’m intimidated by most teenagers, but he’s worse than anyone. He’s several inches taller than me already, despite only being nine months older. He’s scruffy, and loud, and picks fights with everyone, even the teachers. He’s also a bully (well, I’ve never actually seen him do any bullying, but he’s that type of kid). I have absolutely no idea why he’s here. Frankly, I didn’t even know he could read.

It’s pretty much impossible not to watch him as he browses the shop. I don’t know if he’s seen me - would he know or care if he had? - and I’m a little afraid of what he might do. One of the reasons I come here is to escape people from school, the type who trash the school library and tear pages from textbooks to use for cigarette papers. I don’t like the idea of Lister fucking Bird coming in and disrupting my haven.

Checking to make sure Alex isn’t watching me, I slip my phone out of my pocket to shoot a frantic text to Rowan. ‘quick help pls @ rossis come now’. Within seconds, he sends back a photo of his cello teacher’s living room, accompanied only by the word ‘bruh’. I deflate somewhat as I move over to the till.

As I wait for Lister to come and pay, I recite the script in my head. Stationery, tote bag, donation to the literacy charity, take money, give receipt, thank you for shopping with us. It’s a ridiculously long spiel, one I wish we could just condense into ‘money please, thank you, bye’. Lucia is obsessed with us providing a “positive and bubbly customer experience”. I am neither bubbly nor positive. Pretending I am is so far out of my skill set that it’s actually laughable.

I’m pulled out of my thoughts by the sound of a book slamming on the counter.

It’s a cookbook of cheap recipes. We don’t sell many copies, considering we’re based in a fairly well-off area. Not a rich area, but nobody is really poor either, I don’t think. Lister looks somewhere between sullen and furious, and I’m a little bit afraid of him.

“Would you like to buy any stationery with that?”

“Nope.”

His answer is short, sharp, nothing like the usual apologetic ramblings I’m faced with during this bit. I gulp before continuing.

“How about a reusable Rossi’s Books canvas tote bag for £5?”

“Nope.”

“Would you like to make a charitable donation to—“

”Can I just buy my fucking book, please?”

I’m reminded again why I’m shit-scared of this boy. I’m not used to dealing with angry people, especially not ones who could likely take me out with a single punch. I end up stammering through the next line.

“Um… £9.99, please.” I try to offer a smile.

He fishes in his pocket and dumps a handful of change on the counter. There’s nothing bigger than a 50p piece, and his face is burning. Mine might be too - this is a level of maths I wasn’t prepared for.

I don’t look up at him as I count the change into the till. He seems embarrassed and I don’t want to make it any worse. That, and I’m terrified of losing count halfway through. Honestly, I just want this interaction over with.

It takes me a good few minutes to successfully count. In truth, I think he might be about 10p short, but acknowledging that is a kind of discomfort I don’t want to inflict on either of us. I print his receipt and he all but rips it from my hand before storming off.

“Thank you for shopping at Rossi’s Books.” I say, though there’s not much point - the bell over the door cuts me off halfway through ‘Rossi’s’.

In a daze, I return to the stack of books I’d been shelving. Alex comes up behind me casually, pushing a trolley of new releases.

“Friend of yours?”

I realise my eyes are still trained on the door. “Oh, um… no. No, not really.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi it's 2am and i'm not sure exactly how coherent this chapter is but ! some bicci interaction and a little bit of shitty english high school pastoral care :^)

**JIMMY**

When I reach my form room on Monday morning, I’m immediately pulled aside by Mr Lamb.

“Pastoral want to see you during form.”

I know it’ll just be a standard half term check-in - being trans puts me in the category of ‘vulnerable student’, and Mrs Riley meets with me at the beginning and end of every half term to see how I’m getting on. Despite this knowledge, I’m still incredibly antsy as I walk down the hall. The pastoral office is unnerving by nature, with its white walls and progress charts housed in a room much too small for the number of people inside it at any one time.

The door is closed when I arrive, which means I have to wait on a chair outside. I wouldn’t ordinarily be bothered by this, but today one of the three chairs is filled - once again, by Lister fucking Bird.

Saturday runs through my mind over and over again, and as I sit down on the third chair along I find myself stealing glances at him.

He’s every bit as scruffy as usual - shirt untucked, tie too loose, jumper tied haphazardly around his waist. There’s a scowl on his face as he scribbles on a worksheet. I think it’s the science homework that’s due in period one, but I couldn’t read his handwriting if I tried. He always seems to be here finishing some lot of homework or another - it’s pretty much his permanent resting spot when he gets kicked out of lessons.

“The fuck are you staring at?”

His voice comes out of nowhere and makes me jump. I realise that he’s  _ glaring  _ at me as if there’s a fire burning behind his eyes. He slams his homework to the floor and stands up, towering over me in an instant. He leans in close and hisses in my ear.

“I don’t know what you  _ think  _ you know about me, but say a word to anyone about Saturday and I’ll — ”

“Allister Bird!” Mrs Riley’s voice rings out, my saviour, stopping Lister in his tracks. He backs away from me, shoulders sagging. “Jimmy, if you want to come in? Lister, Mrs Daly will be out to speak to you in just a minute. Try to behave, will you?”

She guides me into the room, and my stomach is still doing flips over that confrontation with Lister. In general, I do my best not to believe rumours about people (God knows enough were spread about me before I came out, and not a single one was true), but Lister makes it difficult. Every interaction I’ve ever had with him has totally confirmed everything everyone says about him.

The pastoral office walls are plastered with graphs and charts about student achievement, most of which mean nothing to me. The only one I understand is the Venn diagram. It’s a visual of all the vulnerable students, categorised by the reasons why. Three circles -  _ attendance concerns, achievement concerns, behavioural concerns.  _ In each circle are small cutouts of individual students’ year seven photos. Some of them have literal green stickers on, which represent “known external concerns”. I’m on the chart - not within any of the circles, but on the edge with a green sticker. Essentially,  _ “the kid’s got problems but they don’t actually seem to affect his performance at school”. _ There’s a photo of Lister slap bang in the middle of the page, one of only three year nine students that come under all three categories. He has a green sticker, too. I wonder what it means.

“Morning, Jimmy.” Mrs Riley chirps.

“Morning.” I mumble.

I like Mrs Riley. She’s the head of year nine, but she’s been my pastoral manager since I started at the school. They reshuffled the pastoral system at the beginning of year eight, but since I already had a good relationship with her and was classed as vulnerable, I was one of the few students that didn’t end up with a new pastoral manager. After two and a half years, she knows me pretty well.

“What was that outside?”

“Oh, nothing. We were just talking.”

“Are you sure? You didn’t look very comfortable.”

“It’s fine.”

I don’t actually  _ want  _ to get Lister in trouble. He’s clearly got something going on, and as long as he doesn’t actually, physically beat me up, I can probably handle a bit of aggression.

“If you’re sure…?” Mrs Riley says gently, before continuing when I say nothing else. “Well then, I just wanted to check in with how you’re getting on.”

The conversation is pretty standard from that point forward. No, I’m not being bullied, yes, teachers are getting my name right, no, I’m not having any trouble in the boys’ bathrooms. I’ve had more than enough of these meetings over the years, and every one is exactly the same. I could probably make my way through an entire one in my sleep.

Today, there’s a slight difference. Where I’m sat, I have a perfect view of the frosted glass window in the door of the office. Through it I can make out the blurry form of Lister, still waiting on the chairs outside. I find myself distracted by him, watching his silhouette as he scrunches up the homework sheet and throws it across the hall, and swinging back and forth on his chair. For all that I’m afraid of him, I’m also  _ very  _ intrigued.

About five minutes before the period one bell, Mrs Daly finally arrives to meet with Lister. Without him out there distracting me, I try to finish up my own conversation as quickly as humanly possible.

When I get to Science, Lister isn’t there. He’s not in English either. By period three he still hasn’t turned up, and I actually start to worry a little bit. Despite myself, I end up praying for him. I think it’s to assuage my own anxiety as much as anything else - I talk to God whenever I end up worrying needlessly, and He always helps. Even if Lister may not be a good person, I  _ am _ , and I don’t want anything bad to have happened to him.

The rest of the school day passes in a bit of a blur.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok before i begin i just want to say AAAAAA thunder drew a scene from chapter 3 and it's the coolest most exciting thing that has ever happened to me and i've been flapping about it for like an hour bit.ly/3fTGbFr LOOK HOW COOL THIS IS

**LISTER**

My meeting with Mrs Daly goes about as nightmarishly as they always do. Being a ‘problem student’ as I am, pastoral make me come in for behavioural report meetings every Monday and Friday. Mrs Daly begins every Monday meeting by reminding me that each week is a fresh start, and immediately regrets it when I inform her that I haven’t done my weekend homework.

This week is even worse than usual because I’m already in a bad mood by the time she reaches me. For starters, the electric went off this morning as I was halfway through getting dressed, and then when I arrived at school I was met by that weird Jimmy kid from the bookshop  _ staring  _ at me. I threatened him, which got me yelled at by my head of year, and now there’s basically zero chance of not ending up with a detention after school.

Daly keeps droning on and on about my goals for the week, and I’m not in the mood for any of it.

The only good thing about being a problem student for as long as I can remember is that, by now, I know exactly how to play the system.

“Frankly, Claire, I’m about five minutes from lobbing a chair at someone’s head.”

It’s an exaggeration, obviously (I’m a  _ bit  _ of a wanker, but I’m not actively violent), but I know it will work in my favour. Mrs Daly will sit back in her chair, suck her teeth, look at me like I’m a basket case, and then talk about “strategising” for several minutes until simply agreeing to let me spend the day in the internal isolation room. She always acts like this is a big disappointment, but it works for me. I love not having to go to actual lessons (especially today, when I’m pretty sure I have at least four classes with Jimmy and/or his weird tall friend).

I spend the rest of the day in there, trying and failing to catch up on my homework. It’s basically useless trying to focus on anything. I’m not stupid, not exactly, but I’m so shit at school it’s actually ridiculous. My brain is just constantly full of more important things, like whether there’s enough food in to cook tonight, or if Mum’s going to be able to pay the electric, or how long I’ve got until the people that make fun of me at school found out quite how pitiful my life really is.

To my surprise, I’m allowed to leave at 3:15 along with everyone else. Apparently Jimmy must have kept quiet about me threatening him and I don’t have to put up with detention. I’m grateful to an extent, but I doubt I’ll ever actually thank him for it. The less of him I see, the better.

When the bus is halfway back to my village, a text comes through from my mum.  _ ‘won’t be able to top up the electric til after work, can you keep yourself busy a few more hours?’  _ I swear out loud, and at least three other passengers turn to glare at me.

It’s February, meaning the sun goes down around 5. I don’t much fancy being in a pitch-black, freezing cold house for five hours alone. If she’d texted me before I got on the bus I would’ve just hung around school until the building locks at half five. As it is, I’ll have to kill time in the village - the library shuts at 6, and the park is the usual stomping grounds of Theo Wills and his gang of imbeciles, so that’s a no-go. Without the cash to sit in Spoons all evening I’m just going to have to wander the streets until Mum gets home. Fucking delightful.

I had the sense to charge my phone all afternoon (shoutout to Mr Baker, the teacher monitoring isolation students today, for basically letting me get away with whatever I like) so I should at least be able to listen to music as I wander aimlessly.

It’s times like these I wish I wasn’t so fucking tall. More specifically, I wish the tallness hadn’t happened so quickly. I outgrew my winter coat within weeks of buying it, and we’ve not yet had the chance or the funds to replace it. All I’ve got to defend myself against the biting cold is my ratty school pullover, which still more or less fits (a little short in the sleeves, but I’m managing). I’m coping now, but it’ll only get worse once the sun sets.

For the first few hours after getting off the bus, I’m able to sit in the library, taking advantage of the heater and trying to finish my essay for English lit, which has been overdue for a fortnight now. I actually really like the book,  _ To Kill a Mockingbird,  _ but I suck at the essay part - I know exactly what I want to say, but it all gets messed up when I try to put it into words. I’m shit at explaining myself (on paper, at least - under the right circumstances, I could talk for England), and if my work isn’t perfect then I won’t hand it in. I’d rather my teachers think I’m lazy than actually stupid.

The library staff apologetically kick me out at 6, and I’m once again left to my own devices. It’s well and truly dark by this point, so I have to stick to the well-lit streets.

For half an hour or so, I window-shop along all the high street stores I wouldn’t be caught dead in even if I could afford them. It’s a pretty fun way to pass the time, for a while at least.

Unfortunately, though, God is 100% out to get me. Because at 6:30, still at least 3 hours before I can go home, the heavens open and it’s suddenly pissing it down. Within seconds I’m soaked through.

It gets worse.

The only place on this whole street that I can go inside without having to pay is that fucking bookshop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope this was alright !! the next chapter should be fun i'm excited to write it


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a little bit longer than the other chapters so far i think ! i hope u like it, it's got a bit of proper plot for once ooo

**JIMMY**

My shift has been entirely uneventful until now. As always on Mondays, Rowan is sitting in the store to keep me company, occupying himself with homework and chatting mindlessly to me as I rearrange shelves and apply pricing stickers. Gianni is tottering around behind me making sure I’m doing a good job, and Alex is manning the till.

A little after 6:30 we hear a sudden down-pouring of rain, and the bell above the door goes. I don’t turn to look until I hear Rowan gasp. My stomach drops when I realise that there in the doorway, sopping wet and surprisingly non-surly, is Lister.

“Uh — ” he begins, stuttering a little bit, “Is it okay if I come in until the rain stops? I’ll be quiet.”

Rowan and I exchange a look, which tells me that he and I are on the same page - we’d probably say no if we were in charge here. Unluckily for us, Gianni is one of the nicest men on the planet.

“Of course, of course!” He ushers Lister inside, fussing over his wet hair and guiding him to the comfy chairs where Rowan is seated. “Take your time, just try not to drip on the new books!”

Lister smiles weakly at Gianni’s kind, jovial voice, but his face falls when I looks up at me and sees the distrusting look on my face. He opens his mouth for a second, almost like he’s about to apologise to me for earlier, but he just looks down at his feet. I’ve never seen him this quiet, and it’s kind of a welcome change.

“So…” Rowan begins, as Gianni potters off into the back office to make us all some tea. “What are you doing out at this time?”  
“What are you?” Lister snaps back, but he recoils instantly. “Sorry. Um… I forgot my keys. I have to wait for my mum to get back from work.”

I don’t know if he realises that his house keys are attached to his school lanyard, clearly displayed around his neck. I catch Rowan staring at them too, but I shake my head gently, urging him not to say anything. To my relief, he doesn’t.

“Sick. Well, better in here than out there. I’m Rowan, by the way.” He reaches out a hand for Lister to shake. He does, but looks bewildered.  
“Um… Lister.”  
“I know.” Ro grins, returning to his homework.

I keep on organising the shelf I’ve been working on, but there’s an odd sort of tension in the air that wasn’t there before. I don’t continue the conversation Rowan and I had previously been having about Bon Iver. It seems a little strange being anything like ourselves when Lister Bird is sitting here, so utterly out of place.

Gianni comes back out with a tray of tea, offering one to Alex before coming and sitting by the rest of us.

“How about you take a break, Jim? Come, have some tea.”

There are only three armchairs, so I end up sitting cross-legged on the floor. Lister, much to my surprise, scrabbles to try and offer me his seat, but I shrug him off. He fidgets with his damp sleeves, and thanks Gianni repeatedly as he waits for the tea to cool.

“So, are you boys school friends?”

Our three answers of ‘kind of’, ‘not exactly’, and ‘um?’ mingle together uncomfortably, and Gianni looks bewildered. Rowan clarifies for us.

“We have a few subjects together, but we’ve never talked.”  
“Oh! Well, now’s your chance.” He squints at Lister’s lanyard, reading his ID. “So, Allister - what do you usually do when it isn’t raining?”

Lister is making polite eye contact, but he looks seriously uncomfortable. Honestly, I don’t blame him.

“Not much. I listen to a lot of music, I guess?”  
“Brilliant! These two love music. Don’t you, boys?”  
“Yup.” I say, forcing a smile. I’m not sure if Gianni doesn’t realise how awkward this is for all of us, or if he simply doesn’t care. “What kind of music do you like, Lister?”

He just shrugs, staring into his tea mug. Gianni doesn’t seem to be affected by the obvious tension, and keep chattering away. He asks Lister what kind of books he likes ( _ ‘I don’t read much’ _ ) and what he wants to do for GCSE ( _ ‘no clue’ _ ), as well as trying to find some common ground between us. With every excruciating minute, I find myself staring out of the window in the vain hope that the rain will have eased.

It takes almost twenty minutes for Gianni to finish his tea, and all the while he’s trying to force a conversation that simply isn’t happening. There’s palpable relief amongst the three of us when he finally stands up and goes to return the tray to the back room.

“Jim, I don’t think we’re getting any customers while this rain’s going on. Why don’t you finish up that shelf and work on your homework until your grandad gets here?”

I’m grateful for the chance to focus on something that isn’t the sheer absurdity of this situation, and settle into Gianni’s recently vacated chair with my English folder in my lap. Rowan keeps working on his History essay, and Lister fidgets awkwardly with a hole in the knee of his trousers for a few minutes before picking up his bag and fishing out a crumpled sheet of paper. The rain seems to have seeped through his bag and his page is damp, which makes him groan.

“Do you need some new paper?” My own voice surprises me. It’s quiet and reedy, which makes sense given how nervous I am.   
“Um… yes please.” I hand over a few sheets of lined A4 and, to my surprise, Lister smiles. “Thanks.”   
“No problem.” It’s quiet for a few seconds, and out of some compulsive need to escape the awkward silence I speak again. “What are you working on?”

He seems surprised to hear me speak, but hands over the rain-ruined page.  _ Analyse Atticus’ parenting methods.  _ This essay was due in weeks ago. I got an A on mine. I try not to let Lister see how perplexed I am that he’s working on this homework, of everything we’ve been set over the last few weeks. I catch Rowan eyeing me curiously.

“It’s shit.” Lister says hurriedly, the same blush from the other day inching its way up his face. “Mr Batten’s hounding me for it. I know it sucks.”

I scan across what I can read of it (which, between the watermarks and Lister’s atrocious handwriting, isn’t much) and am pleasantly surprised.

“It’s actually not bad. You keep running away with yourself a bit, but the foundation’s solid.”   
He snatches it away. “It’s shit. I’m not even gonna bother.”

He shoves it back in his bag furiously, avoiding eye contact. Rowan, whose eyes have been trained on his own page, speaks without looking up.

“You should. Jimmy knows what he’s on about.”   
“I don’t need your help.” Lister snaps, but he slowly pulls the paper back out. His voice is uncharacteristically quiet as he speaks again. “... What would you do with it?”   
“Well…” I sit up straighter, clearing my throat and putting my own folder aside. “Like I said, the foundation’s decent. You know what you’re talking about, you just need to work on your writing structure.”

Rowan seems properly curious now, putting his essay down and craning his neck to see the page. Lister shrinks in his seat.

“And you probably need a few more quotes to back it up. Do you have your book?”   
He flushes bright red again. “Batten doesn’t let me take them home.”   
“I’ve got mine.” Rowan chimes in. “And it’s annotated, so that might help. Is this the parenting essay?”

Lister seems completely bewildered by the sudden flurry of activity, as Rowan and I shift our chairs around and clear the coffee table to lay our notes out clearly.

“We should probably start planning how to structure your point before you write it out. Which is the paragraph you’re most confident on?”

He seems hesitant at first to accept our help, but his eyes grow gradually wider as Rowan picks out quotes and I explain how to bullet-point the foundation of a PEED paragraph.

“It’s that easy?” He almost whispers. For the first time ever, his abrasive persona is nowhere to be seen.

We end up working on Lister’s essay right up until the shop shuts at 8:30. The rain actually stopped over an hour earlier, but none of us noticed. There was a genuine smile on Lister’s face as he came to understand what he was doing, and that was distracting in itself. By the time my grandad arrives, he has an essay to be proud of. Honestly, I think it could probably rival mine - and despite my initial expectations, it’s almost entirely his own work. All Rowan and I actually ended up doing was helping him form his points into coherent paragraphs.

“Jimbob, are we ready to go?” My grandad bustles into the store. He seems surprised to see somebody other than Rowan sitting with me. “Do we have another guest for dinner?”

Lister bristles. I realise, passively, that he can’t have had anything to eat since lunchtime. I push down the knot in my stomach, trying to forget the image of Lister that I’d had in my head before this afternoon.

“You’re welcome to come over if you like? I mean, if your mum won’t be waiting?”   
He shoves his chair back forcefully. “I’m not your fucking friend.”

He picks up his bag and storms out of the shop without another word, barging past my grandad carelessly. Rowan and I exchange a wide-eyed look of  _ ‘what the fuck was that?’. _

For some reason, it was like the past few hours were completely undone. The surprisingly quiet, surprisingly mild, surprisingly clever Lister completely vanished once there was a new audience for him. He turned straight back into the angry, intimidating boy that I’d felt entirely justified fearing as recently as this morning.

It occurs to me, with a sinking feeling, that he’s left his essay behind.


	6. Chapter 6

**LISTER**

Killing time between leaving the bookshop and getting home is surprisingly easy. Walking slower than usual from the high street to my house took about half an hour, and by then there was only another hour or so to wait until Mum was back. My front garden still has a swingset in it from when I was a kid - it’s rusty as hell and creaks like a motherfucker, but it’s still easy enough to swing back and forth for ages just thinking.

One of the things I dwell on is how Jimmy and Rowan definitely knew I wasn’t telling the truth about my keys. I noticed, too late to recover from the lie, that they were hanging around my neck the whole time. Neither of the boys said anything and Rowan didn’t give any indication that he knew about Saturday, but I still can’t get it out of my head. They must know. They  _ have  _ to know.

Mum gets home around ten and, in a rare and wonderful turn of events, sits down to eat tea with me. She bought Rustler’s burgers on the way home, my childhood treat food, and we end up sitting and talking for several hours, until long past my usual bedtime. It’s the first proper chat we’ve had in a while, and I find myself willing it not to end.

It does, of course. By the time I wake up at 7:30 on Tuesday, she’s already left for work.

Thinking again of Rowan and Jimmy, I decide I can’t face school today. One of the positives of Mum never being around is that there’s nothing and nobody there to stop me from skipping. Last term my attendance was something like 75%. It doesn’t bother me as much as it should.

I go to the school website on my phone and log into the parent portal using Mum’s details. I report myself absent due to illness (which I can easily bullshit if I’m caught out, claiming I got stuck in yesterday’s rain and ended up with a cold) and put my phone back on the side, rolling over to sleep a few hours more.

It’s midday by the time I wake up again and I wander down to the kitchen for some lunch. The book I bought at the weekend is still sitting on the counter, but it reminds me too much of Jimmy, who I really don’t want to think about at the moment. Instead, I go for my tried and true option of soup and bread. The bread is a little bit stale, but it’s easy enough to ignore once it’s soaked in chicken soup.

You really don’t notice how long a day lasts until you’ve got a whole one to fill. For a short while I mess around with my drum kit (which is a little worse for wear these days, but still my most prized possession), then try to read the book my granny gave me on Sunday. Nothing holds my interest for long, though, and by 3 pm I’m practically climbing the walls.

I go outside to the swing for a while, which helps kill an hour.

We’ve never had much money, but things weren’t quite so bad when I was younger. Until the first time my mum lost her job, back when I was in year 5, we had enough to get by  _ and  _ occasionally treat me - stuff like the swingset, and my drums. I’d been smart enough to notice that I was the only kid in my class whose packed lunch was made up of Aldi products rather than name-brand snacks, but we weren’t  _ struggling _ . I never had to worry we might end up on the streets if our luck ran out. It was easier then, simpler.

Maybe that’s why I like the swing set so much. Out here, it’s easy to pretend I’m still that little kid. To pretend I’ve not seen the unpaid bills stacking up on the kitchen table, pretend I didn’t overhear an argument between Mum and Grandpa about whether it would be better for me to move in with my grandparents for a while. Pretending makes it easier.

It starts to snow around 4 o’clock. Just a light dusting, but enough to send me back inside. I don’t want to  _ actually  _ get sick.

Mum’s left her box of tobacco out on the coffee table, so out of sheer boredom I start rolling some cigs for her. It’s a great time waster - every time I want something to do with my hands, I roll. She taught me how when I was seven, and used to have me sit and do it if she was too busy to watch me for a while. I got pretty good at it, and these days it’s a comfort, a  _ ‘some things never change’  _ type of activity.

I’ve always been a little bit tempted to pocket a few and pick up smoking. May as well complete the journey to ‘utter failure of a human’, right? I haven’t yet, though. Mum’s made me promise a thousand times that I’ll never allow myself to end up like her. To be honest, hearing her phrase it like that makes me want to fucking cry, but it’s one hell of an incentive.

When I was little, I decided I was going to be a rockstar when I grew up. I used to watch music videos on repeat, learning them all shot-for-shot, and then I’d ramble for hours at the dinner table about how one day I’d be rich and famous, how we’d live in a mansion together and buy everything we ever wanted, how we’d be so rich we could even have an ice dispenser in the door of our fridge. My mum would hang on every word, smiling at me sadly (though I didn't process at the time that it was sad).

I know well enough now that that’s bullshit - a kid like me, with bad grades, no connections, no class? I’ll be lucky to end up flipping burgers for my whole life. People like me don’t end up rich and famous. The world just isn’t designed for us.

As the sun sets outside, I’m struck by the unfamiliar urge to do my homework. Like, by  _ choice. _

Yesterday reset my brain a little bit, because for the first time ever I actually understood someone’s explanation of a PEED paragraph. They’re actually  _ easy  _ now that they make sense to me. It’s one of those things teachers always yell at me for not doing, but never bother to explain how to fucking do. With Jimmy talking me through it, it only took me a few minutes to feel confident writing them. I know he’s probably going to go off and become some Professional Musical Genius ™  or something, but if that falls through I think he’d make a pretty decent teacher.

No! Shut up, brain. I don’t want to think about Jimmy. I don’t want to think about how he probably spent today telling Rowan everything, theorising about my sad little life as the local poor kid. I don’t want to think about him, or see his face, ever the fuck again.

Fishing through my bag for my pen and the wad of paper Jimmy gave me yesterday, it hits me like a punch in the gut that my essay isn’t there. I have my exercise books, some loose worksheets from Maths, my behavioural report card - but no English essay.

It’s fine. Fuck it, y’know? I probably wasn’t even going to hand it in anyway. Not like Batten would’ve even believed that I wrote something  _ good _ , right? Plus, it’s too late to even be worth marking. Fuck it. Fuck it all.

Giving up on the homework idea almost immediately, I just go upstairs and collapse into bed. Though it’s barely 6 pm, and I’ve only been up for a few hours, I feel exhausted. It’s like being a human being drains all the energy from my body to the point I just want to sleep for five solid years until I’m an adult and the world has had a chance to fix itself.

Everyone - teachers, my grandparents, even Jimmy and Rowan - always make out like everything would be better if I just  _ tried _ . Tried with my schoolwork, tried to make some friends, tried to get a Saturday job. I don’t know how to get anyone to understand that trying gets you nowhere. My mum works harder than anyone I know, has been trying for  _ years  _ to drag us out of the hole we were pushed into when she was made redundant. If this is what she gets for all her trying, why should I bother? I’m sick of trying if this will always be the outcome.

I plug my phone in to charge and curl up under my duvet, pulling my stuffed tiger (Calvin, another childhood comfort) into my arms. I try hard to focus on the drum beats of the music playing and wait for sleep to take me. I’ve had enough of being awake for one day.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is short and not ? Great but i needed to get it down so i can move onto the next bit so lol sorry this took so long to write i've been in a Not Very Good headspace the last few days but i'm gonna do my best to get back on track with writing this tomorrow <3

**LISTER**

By some fucking miracle, I sleep straight through to Wednesday morning. There must be something wrong with me - maybe I’m actually sick? Either way, it’s 6 am and I’ve only just come back to consciousness. Once again, Mum’s at work and I have the house to myself. My stomach rumbles and I consider going downstairs to make some breakfast, but I can’t actually find the motivation. As expected, there are no notifications on my phone - I’m really not sure why I check every morning, considering my distinct lack of friends. The whole house always feels uncomfortably empty on days like today.

I decide to practice the drums again, just for something to do. There are a few tutorials on YouTube I’ve been meaning to watch for a while now, and now seems like the perfect opportunity - with the amount I slept yesterday, I think I’m unlikely to get any rest today, so I’ll have to come up with something to fill the hours.

It’s one of those weird days already where I’m struggling to actually do anything, though, and with every passing fuck-up I grow more and more frustrated. Drumming is something that’s always come easily to me, the one constant in my life. Messing up with music bothers me more than anything else - more than school, more than fighting - and within an hour I feel like I could fucking sob. The more mistakes I make, the more upset I become, and in a moment of anger I end up breaking one of my sticks.

With a sigh, I exit YouTube and meander downstairs. I’ll have to forget about drumming until I can get some new sticks, which could be weeks. I have to try and pretend that the realisation doesn’t make me want to curl up in a ball and cease to exist.

The day could be worse. When I get to the kitchen, there’s a note on the counter in Mum’s distinctive loopy scrawl.  _ Love you kid, have a good day at school. Having a proper tea tonight xx. _ When I open the fridge it’s actually full, which puts a smile on my face. I decide to make myself a bacon sandwich and settle on the sofa to watch some TV. There's a rerun marathon of  _ Sarah Jane Adventures  _ on the CBBC, which I'm definitely too old for but the nostalgia is fun. I need a win after the shit start to my day.

It’s a pretty good distraction, honestly - in fact, it keeps me busy for hours. I end up watching until the front door slams shut around lunchtime. I near enough shit myself when Mum walks into the room and drops her bag, eyes wide. I completely forgot that she finishes early on Wednesdays.

“Allister?”   
I wince. “Hi.”   
“What are you doing here?”   
“... Watching  _ Sarah Jane Adventures _ .”   
Mum just glares. “Not funny, Lister. Why aren't you in school?"

It's the best I can do to shrug and avert my eyes. She's got that look on her face, the disappointed mother look that makes me feel more guilty than I can even begin to express. 

"You don't look ill. If you're well enough to watch TV you're well enough to go to school." She pauses, as if expecting a response, but huffs and continues when I say nothing. "You can't keep doing this, Lis. I've already been called in for a meeting this year because of your attendance. I can't just skip work to clean up your mess when you can't be bothered to go in. If I can't go to those meetings it makes me look like a shit mum. Am I a shit mum, Lister?"

Without warning, I burst into tears - which, of course, makes me feel ten times worse. I hate crying in front of people. There's no way of doing it that doesn't come off like I'm trying to guilt trip them. I don’t want to guilt trip Mum. I don’t want her to ever feel like she isn’t enough.

She’s a great mum, always has been. I might be a bit of a disaster, but not one bit of that is down to her parenting. I’d probably be a lot worse if she wasn’t so great. I fucking  _ hate  _ making her feel bad. 

Her frustrated tone drops almost instantly, and she runs over to the sofa and pulls me into a hug, stroking my hair. She always did this when I was a kid, running her hands through my hair to try and make me feel better. It hasn’t happened in a while, not since I’ve been older and more emotionally repressed. I miss it a lot, but it doesn’t make me feel any less guilty about crying. 

She keeps holding me until my tears subside enough for me to speak.

“I fucking hate school.” She pulls me closer. “I hate it. I can’t do it, Mum. I hate it so much.”   
“It’s okay, bub. You’re supposed to hate school.”   
“I can’t do it.”   
“You can. You have to. It always sucks when you’re fourteen, Lis, but you have to stick it out.”   
“I hate it.”   
“You’ve got friends — ”   
“I  _ don’t _ ! School is just  _ shit,  _ Mum. It’s shit.” I struggle to breathe for a few seconds before carrying on. “I don’t have any friends, and I can’t do the work, and people are  _ so shit _ — ”   
“Are you getting bullied?” She cuts in sharply.   
“I — no? Maybe? I don’t know.” I snuggle closer into her side. “Not exactly. I just… People don’t like me.”   
“Then they’re idiots. But avoiding the idiots doesn’t stop them existing.”   
“I know.”

She sits up straighter, looking into my eyes.

“I won’t send you in this afternoon. We’ll watch some films, we’ll cook a proper tea, and we’ll talk until you feel a bit better. But you’re going in tomorrow, Lister. Finish up this week, you’ve got your trip this weekend, and then you have a week away from the idiots. Then you’ve only got a few months until summer. After that, two more years. Then you’re out of there.”   
“Two years is  _ forever. _ ”   
She laughs. “You  _ wish _ . Two years goes like nothing, Lis. It feels like five minutes ago you were knee-high. Before you know it you’ll be a proper grownup. School’s a blip.”   
“Pretty massive blip.”

She just tuts and pushes my fringe out of my eyes, affectionately calling me stubborn and pulling me into a hug.

I know, logically, that she’s probably right. High school isn’t going to last forever. But as it is, it’s all there is. Without friends, or any skills, or any intelligence, I don’t have anything to occupy my time  _ except  _ for school. 

The thought of going back tomorrow is overwhelming. It’s bad enough at the best of times, but I really,  _ really  _ don’t want to see Jimmy and Rowan at the moment. Monday has been running through my mind over and over and over again, every aspect of it. I can’t stop fucking reliving it. Firstly how close I let them get, but then how  _ horrible  _ I was to them. I don’t want to be a dick, I don’t like doing it. I’m not a bad person. I’m  _ not _ . I just feel like shit knowing that, if I ever did let anybody see me like they did on Monday, there’s no hope that it wouldn’t go sour.

  
“Shall we say ‘fuck it’ and watch some Pixar? We’ve got all three  _ Toy Story _ s.”   
“Please.” I smile, settling back into the sofa cushions and wiping the tear tracks from my cheeks.   
“I’ll make a brew.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi here's the start of some Actual Plot™,, i'm excited for the next few chapters :^) hopefully i should be able to get them out fairly quickly but i'm a bit busy this weekend so apologies in advance if it takes a little bit longer than usual
> 
> sorry for any weird formatting this chapter ! i had to type it up on my phone

**JIMMY**

Lister is back in school on Thursday, which both heightens and settles my nerves in equal measure.

I’ve spent the last two days panicking, irrationally I admit, that Lister found his evening at Rossi’s so unbearably awful that he spontaneously decided to drop out of school the next morning. Rowan has noticed that I’ve been off, but I haven’t explained why. I don’t want him thinking I’ve fixated on Lister for whatever reason - bad things always happen when I obsess over things, and it’s  _ so  _ much worse if that thing is a person who couldn’t care less about my existence.

I see him walking into the courtyard before first bell, headphones in his ears and a face like thunder. I try to go over and speak to him, but I’m cut off by the bell. I don’t see him again until period four, English, but he sits on the opposite side of the room. I see Mr Batten go over to up, and a wave of nausea rises up in my gut.

Rowan and I turned in the essay. It was entirely unplanned - initially, I’d only kept it in my bag so that I could give it to Lister and he could decide what to do with it. But when he wasn’t in on Tuesday I felt it burning a hole in my backpack, and the anxiety only got worse by Wednesday. After having to put up with me rambling nervously for a full day and a half, Rowan just rolled his eyes and grabbed the paper out of my bag. I didn’t have time to stop him before he slid it under the door of the English office.

I’d hoped I might have a chance to warn Lister. I even tried looking for him on Facebook last night, but he doesn’t have a profile (or if he does, he’s got the strongest privacy settings known to man).

The thing is, I've read the essay. More than once. And I  _ know  _ it’s good, I know it’s worthy of an A. Mr Batten happens to me a complete and total wanker, though, and I’m scared of what he might say to Lister. He could berate him for the lateness of the homework, or - god forbid - accuse him of cheating. It helps to psych yourself up for a conversation with him, but Lister is going to be going in blind, and I’m scared on his behalf.

Rowan leaves twenty minutes early for his guitar lesson, which leaves me to suffer through the rest of class with Lister’s eyes boring into my back. I hang back for a few minutes, packing my things painstakingly slowly in hopes of avoiding bumping into Lister on the way out. No such luck, however, because the second I leave the door I’m dragged by the sleeve into an otherwise empty courier, and suddenly Lister Bird is towering over me, looking down at me with a steely gaze.

“Did you give my essay to Batten?”   
“I-I, um- I-” I sigh, steadying myself. “Yeah. Me and Rowan.”   
  


He stays deadly still for a few moments, and I panic what is going to come of it. As I’ve said before, if he wanted to beat me up he could. Easily.

“Thank you.” He takes a step back, “I — Batten gave me a B. Thank you.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. "Only a B?"

Lister shrugs. There's the ghost of a smile on his face. "Marked down for lateness. And my spelling is," He crumples up his features in a hauntingly accurate impression of Mr Batten. "' _ nothing short of atrocious, Mr Bird.'" _

I end up laughing, and Lister joins in. He's still oddly close to me, but I'm not as intimidated as I was before. We almost feel like  _ friends.  _ I don't voice that thought, however, because I don't want a repeat of Monday.

Mrs Riley walks past, and does a double take when she sees Lister towering over me.

"What are you up to, Lister?" She sounds suspicious.

"Talking about English, Miss. I got a B!" He waves the sheet as if to prove his point.

Mrs Riley looks startled, glancing over to me to corroborate his story. I nod, and her face settles.

"Very well done, then. But go outside - you're not allowed in this corridor without staff supervision."

He starts to walk away and without allowing myself to overthink it, I make a snap decision (not something I’m known for, honestly).

“Do you wanna have lunch with me?”

He looks sceptical, one eyebrow raised. I suddenly feel incredibly self conscious.

“Y’know. If-if you want to. You don’t have to."

" _ Why? _ "

"Just… if you felt like it. Not eating alone, I mean."

"Who said I eat alone?" He snaps, defensively.

I raise my hands in surrender. "I didn't mean that. I just…"

The tension leaves his shoulders and he looks me up and down. He seems to be trying to gauge my intentions, so I stay quiet in an attempt to not freak him out. Eventually, he smiles weakly and nods.

"Sure. Just so  _ you  _ don't have to eat alone. Like, I definitely have other options. This is  _ me _ doing  _ you  _ a favour, yeah?"

"Course." I respond, but I can't stop the smile that spreads across my face.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took so long to get out, but i think this is the longest chapter yet ! this school trip should make for a fun couple of chapters 👀
> 
> sorry for any weird formatting in this chapter, i had to write it on my phone

**LISTER**

I'm almost late to school on Friday because, again, God hates me. My usual bus never showed, and the later one had to make pick-ups at every single stop to compensate. I made it to the school gates at 8:29, a minute before the bell, and the coach for the year nine trip is ready to leave. Mrs Daly sees me approaching and ushers me onto the bus, handing my backpack to the driver to load into the luggage bay. She grumbles at me about how I was supposed to bring a full suitcase, but at this point I just want to sit on the coach and switch off for a few hours until we arrive at Marchants Hill.

I don’t know whose idea it was to send year nine to an outdoor education centre in  _ February _ , but I’m looking forward to this trip. I haven’t actually been to a PGL centre since primary school, and I do have fun on the trips. I tend to have a lot of energy that I rarely burn off, as well as a competitive streak without any of the social skills or drive to join school teams. PGL stuff gives me the chance to run around outside and be the best at something, so I’ve always enjoyed it.

There are empty seats all the way up the coach, but Mrs Daly directs me to the front seat, where I have to sit beside her. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. I’m always forced to sit by teachers on school trips, because they just assume I can’t be expected to behave without constant supervision. It’s an image I kind of fell into in year seven, the uncontrollable kid that acts out constantly, and now teachers just assume the worst of me even when I’m trying my best to be good. It’s one of the reasons I barely bother to try anymore.

The drive takes a little over an hour, and Daly spends at least half of it trying to go through our usual Friday meeting. I’m as disengaged as always, staring out of the window. It isn’t raining for once, but the sky is grey and overcast. I try to zone out the sounds of my classmates, thinking back over the last week.

Everything has happened really quickly, it seems. I can’t quite process that it’s less than a  _ week  _ since I first went to the bookshop. I saw Jimmy and Rowan when I first got on the bus, sitting near the back and chatting animatedly about something or other. Yesterday keeps running through my head - I ate lunch with Jimmy, and Rowan joined us fifteen minutes or so before the end of break. We had an actual conversation, about music mostly, and learned that we have a fair bit in common. I actually  _ enjoyed _ myself, felt almost comfortable, and if I’m honest it kind of scared me. There’s a certain kind of safety that comes with isolating yourself, and lonely as it can be to have no friends, it’s far less terrifying when you never have to rely on anybody but yourself.

Mrs Daly ushers us all out of the coach around 10am, and launches into the usual spiel -  _ “respect the centre, respect the staff, respect each other”,  _ and a long explanation of the various rules and schedules that bores me so much I zone out completely. Eventually she shuts up, telling us to collect our bags and head inside, where our names are printed out on the doors of our rooms.

As I start to walk over to the pile of bags, I'm stopped by a gentle tug on my sleeve. I whip round, expecting it to be a teacher with a lecture or some dickhead planning to make a snide comment, but it's just Jimmy.

"Morning."

"... Morning?"

"Um, so…" he's tugging nervously at the cuffs of his sleeves. "Um, so because safeguarding and stuff I'm not meant to share one of the big rooms. Usually I just get one with Rowan, but there, uh, there's too many people? So they've given us a room for three and I had to pick someone to share with us?"

"Okay…"

"I gave Mrs Riley your name." he stutters, then rushes to continue. "You can say no if you want! It's totally fine if you want to swap with someone else, that's chill, we'll find someone. But yeah, it's just me and Ro. Sorry for not asking you first."

"It's cool. Small room's a shout."

I don't know if he can see the anxiety radiating off me. I don't know  _ why  _ I'm anxious to begin with.

The thing is, Jimmy and Rowan are both nice. Many of my classmates are wankers. Theoretically, a small room with two nice people is a much better deal than a big room with seven wankers. But this is all coming a little bit too close to real friendship for me to be wholly comfortable with it.

Essentially, it's this: there are 50 people in our year on this trip. Statistically, Jimmy must have spoken to at least one of them before this week. Meaning that sometime in the last six days, he's deemed me a safer bet than any of them - that's a sure sign that I've let him get too close.

Before either of us can say anything, Rowan arrives. He's pulling two suitcases and has my backpack slung over his shoulder. He hands Jimmy one of the suitcases, then offers my bag to me.

"How did you know it was mine?" I question, slightly nervously.

"Bon Iver pin." he nods towards the badge on the pocket. "You've got the same one on your blazer."

"Oh."

I didn't realise he'd noticed that. It's a tiny badge, barely 2cm by 2cm. I've had it on my blazer since year seven and nobody has ever commented (even teachers, though non-academic badges are technically against uniform rules). A small smile reaches my face. 

Rowan nods at Jimmy and they both turn to go inside, beckoning for me to follow. In a daze, I do.

The room itself is nice - definitely smaller than the ones I usually stay in on trips like this, but it's nice there's only three beds.

"Bagsy top bunk!" Rowan says, chucking his phone onto the covers to claim ownership.

Jimmy looks at me. "Do you want the single?"

I shrug, and he sits on the bottom bunk. Both of them start to unzip their suitcases, so I sit on my bed and start to unpack my bag. I haven't brought much, nowhere near the full kit list school provided. I've got pyjamas, a wash bag, and three pairs of underwear and socks. As far as I know we shouldn't be doing the canoeing or raft building activities, so the risk of getting soaked through and needing a change of clothes is fairly low. At the bottom of my bag is Calvin, my toy tiger, though I don't unpack him. I always bring him on trips with me, just for the comfort of knowing he's there, but I'd never let any of my classmates see him - I don't need to give anyone a  _ reason  _ to make fun of me.

I glance over at Jimmy and Rowan, who are mostly unpacked and chatting about what they're looking forward to this weekend. Part of me wants to join the conversation, but I'm once again wary of getting too close.

"Christ, Jimjam, how many books have you bought?"

At Rowan's words I look down at the suitcase and, sure enough, there's a Rossi's tote bag with five books spilling out of it.

Jimmy blushes. "I don't want to run out of things to read."

"We're only here two nights!"

"I panicked!"

I'm a bit jealous of him. I've run out of books at home, but I really do like reading. I'm guessing that if he works at the book shop he gets money off them, which I'd fucking love. I tend to get a few new books every year for Christmas and my birthday, but both of those come around in November and December, and by mid-January I've finished them all. I kind of want to ask Jimmy if I could borrow some books off him, but I'd feel weird. Again, I don't want him seeing me as a charity case.

"You're mental. Lister, tell him he's mental."

"Oh— I, uh—" I stammer out, unsure quite what to say.

"I'm not mental! I just like books." he huffs. "Back me up, Lister?"

"Books are cool."

"Thank you!" Jimmy beams, and Rowan rolls his eyes.

"You're just as boring as we are, aren't you?"

"Not that boring. Just  _ quite  _ boring."

Rowan dashes a pillow at my head and I grin, throwing it back. Jimmy squeaks, narrowly avoiding a blow from my shit aim.

"Can we not?" he screeches, and both Rowan and I stop (though not without smirking at each other). "So, Lister. What are you looking forward to this weekend?"

"I like the abseiling." I shrug. "And I liked Jacob's Ladder as a kid, but I'm not sure now."

"Why not?" Jimmy's voice is soft.

I shrug again. "In year six a lad stepped on my hand on purpose to knock me off.”

I laugh, but neither of them join in. They just look  _ sad _ .

“Well, if we do it with you then we promise not to step on your hand.” smiles Jimmy.   
“Unless you do it first. Then it’s fair game.” responds Rowan, grinning.   
Jimmy looks up at Rowan. “Did you bring Pupper?”   
“Yup,” Rowan nods, fishing a stuffed dog out of his suitcase. “Laurie?”

Jimmy looks over at me, seeming almost nervous, but then casts his eyes to the floor and retrieves a well-loved teddy bear in a little suit.

“If you wanna laugh at us, maybe don’t.” Rowan says sharply, eying me with suspicion.   
“I— I wasn’t going to.” I stammer, debating whether or not to bring Calvin out.

I think the strange thing about the two of them is that they are, in a lot of ways, a lot like me. Mostly though, they’re the version of me I kind of want to escape - the nervy, shy, music-obsessed kid that sleeps with a stuffed animal and doesn’t know how to speak to other kids my age. While I hate being that person, they totally embrace it. I’m genuinely not sure whether I want to aspire to be more like them, or if I want to stay far away so I don’t end up following in their footsteps.

I decide that this weekend doesn’t really count for anything.

We’re here three days, and after that I don’t have to see either of them for a full week This is the only chance I’ll ever have during a school event to be anything  _ close  _ to Real Lister, and I’m fairly confident that they (or Jimmy, at least) still find me intimidating enough that they’re unlikely to go around telling everyone what I’m like in my spare time.

I slowly pull Calvin from my bag, trying to avoid eye contact. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Jimmy grin.

“Does he have a name?” Jimmy asks, his voice terribly soft again. He sounds like he’s almost afraid of insulting me.

It occurs to me that I probably affect him more than I realise. I kind of find it easy to forget that my actions affect other people, and it makes me feel like shit - like the other day when I made my mum cry, or when I lash out at my grandparents when I’m stressed. I always seem to act out of fear, and it freaks people out. I really don’t like that, but I’m not sure how to change it.

“Calvin,” I say, attempting to sound bubbly. I’m really not a bubbly person, but I don’t want to be a dickhead. “Like Calvin and Hobbes?”   
“Isn’t Hobbes the tiger?” Rowan chips in.   
I blush furiously. “Four-year-old Lister wanted to be original. But I also wasn’t actually smart enough to be original.”   
Jimmy coos. “He’s  _ ten _ ? That’s so cute!”   
“He’s actually 14, I think.” I’m still blushing, but it’s surprisingly refreshing to realise that neither one of them seems to be making fun of me. “My mum bought him for me when I was born, but I didn’t name him until later.”   
“Same,” Rowan nods. “I didn’t name Pupper until a few years after getting her. Mostly because I couldn’t speak.”   
“I got Laurie when I was ten.” Jimmy mumbles quietly. “He used to be my Grandma’s, and she gave me him when I moved in with them.”

We end up talking about stuffed animals for a while, which is a really strange turn for any conversation to take, but I actually enjoy it. The walls I usually put up around myself in school have fallen down, but I barely realise it enough to feel uncomfortable. It’s seriously strange to me being so open, so normal. Rowan and Jimmy are seeing the version of me that I usually reserve for nobody but my family.

At some point, there’s a knock on the door, and Mrs Daly’s voice floats through.

“Boys! I said back outside by 11!”

The walls instantly go back up, and suddenly I’m School Lister again. I pull open the door with a sullen look on my face, and don’t bother mirroring Jimmy’s mumbled apology. I just walk straight ahead, avoiding eye contact with Mrs Daly. When I glance back, just quickly, I see the boys whispering, a look of slight concern across Rowan’s face.

I curse myself for never being able to just be myself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quick note: i've only been to a pgl centre once in my life, so this is p much based off 1. my childhood memories of ghyll head (an oec in the lake district that isn't owned by pgl but is a similar thing) and 2. the pgl website for marchants hill (big up my friend millie for telling me where the southerners go on school trips bc i don't know WHAT is in the south)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for any weird formatting, i typed this on my phone ! it's unedited so far (because again, phone) but i'll fix it up soon :^)

**JIMMY**

"He's doing it again." Rowan whispers in my ear, and somehow I know exactly what he means.

Lister has changed suddenly, just in the moment that Mrs Daly has been here. He always does this - I noticed it the first time on Monday, and again yesterday. When I pointed it out to Ro, he said he'd seen it too. He's… different when adults are around. When anyone is around, really. I wonder if the version of him we're seeing is the most real, if it's a sign he trusts us, or if there's something more going on.

I’m not entirely sure how we ended up rooming with him. Of everyone in our year, I said his name. It was an instinct - I really don’t know anyone in our class that well, but there’s several people I’ve spoken to twice as often as Lister (and who scare me half as much). Yet there’s something, some nagging thought at the back of my mind, that tells me that Lister really could end up part of our little group. Without even thinking about it, I named him. Mrs Riley had seemed surprised, but she didn't try and discourage me.

This is the first school trip I've been one since year seven where I've shared a room with anyone but Rowan. Safeguarding complicates a lot of things - school trips, P.E., sex ed. They can't put me in with the cis guys for safety reasons, but putting me with the girls is against the school's equality contract. Essentially, they just have to put me somewhere on my own. Halfway through year seven my grandparents came in for a meeting to discuss my 'social isolation', and from that day forward I was always allowed Rowan around for emotional support. In a way, I love that, but in another it does kind of hold us both back. If you always have one person by your side, why would you seek another? Why disrupt something already beautiful? Now, there's Lister. It's not yet clear whether that's exciting or  _ absolutely fucking terrifying. _

There are no activities yet - we're meeting the staff we'll be working with and get separated into the teams we'll be in all weekend. At 12, we sit down for lunch. 

We gesture for Lister to sit at a table with us, but he ignores us and sits down alone at the far end of the room. I notice a couple of people - mostly Aaron Wills, the most annoying lad in our year - hollering at him, flicking tiny bits of food over and making faces. Lister ignores them like a champ, but it makes my blood boil seeing how none of the teachers seem to fucking  _ notice _ . It makes me question everything - whether all the fights I've heard about Lister engaging in, through hearsay mostly, that seem out of character for the boy I've come to know this week, were actually him retaliating. Is he being bullied? Or am I just over-sensitive after so many years of low-level heckling from my classmates? 

There's quite a bit of time to kill between finishing dinner and starting the afternoon activities, so I run upstairs to grab a book to read. I find Lister in the en-suite bathroom picking apple seeds out of his hair.

"You alright?"

Lister shrugs. "Aaron's a wanker." He turns back to the mirror, but I can see his eyes flitting back and forth to me.

"Does he have a reason?"

"Yeah, because it's impossible that anyone could  _ ever  _ be a dick to me without provocation, right?"

He leaves the bathroom and flops onto the bed, avoiding eye contact.

"I didn't mean—"

"I know what you meant. You think I've done something shit to him."

"Nah, the opposite. I know Aaron just sucks. I just think if he's picking on you without reason then you should tell someone."

"Sure." He scoffs. "Because Ms Daly is ever gonna believe that I'm not to blame for anything, ever."

"If you're being bullied—"

"I'm not being bullied! Christ, Jimmy, it's nothing. School sucks, then you leave."

I'm not in the mood to argue with him. I'm still wary that he's bigger than me, stronger than me, entirely capable of fighting me. I don't think he  _ would _ , exactly, but I know that he's not immune to losing his temper, and I don't want to be on the receiving end. This really isn't worth needling him over. 

"Why are you here?" Lister sounds accusatory.

"... In my room?"

"We're meant to be in the dining hall until 2."

"You're here." I point out.

"Yeah, but I'm me. Why are  _ you  _ here?"

I wave one of my books and he makes a noise of understanding. There's a look on his face that I haven't seen before, and I'm struggling to decipher it. It's sad, maybe? Or jealous? I decide to take a risk.

"Do you… do you wanna borrow one? Like Ro said, I packed too many."

"It's cool." He responds, but he doesn't sound sure.

"Seriously, dude."  _ (Dude?  _ Since when do I call people  _ dude _ ?) I hold up my copy of  _ A Separate Peace  _ and wave it in his direction. "We've got free time, always worth having a book."

Hesitantly, he takes it from me. His voice is unusually quiet as he thanks me.

Knowing there isn't long before Mrs Riley notices my absence, I turn to go back downstairs.

"You coming?"

"Uh… Give me two minutes. Then I'll be down."

True to his word, he comes down and meets Rowan and I in the common room. He actually sits next to us, though he only acknowledges us with a silent nod. Rowan and I exchange eye contact, questioning which version of Lister we'll be seeing this afternoon.

For the next hour or so, the three of us sit in silence. Everyone around us is loud, but our small table is like a little bubble of sanity (despite the fact I can feel Mrs Riley's eyes on us, watching and waiting for Lister to misbehave). Rowan is writing something - I'm not sure what, but I know he's been experimenting with songwriting lately - as Lister and I read.

Every so often, my eyes drift up from the page to look at Lister. It's kind of odd seeing him like this without the backdrop of Rossi's. Monday night in the shop was the only other time I've seen him quite so comfortable, without any conversation to fall back on. He sits on the chair with one leg curled beneath him and the other bent so he can rest his chin on his knee. He's biting the skin around his thumbnail on his left hand, holding the book in his right. His brow is furrowed in concentration, and every few seconds he releases a huffy breath to try and blow his wispy fringe from his eyes. He's already at least 50 pages into the book by the time Mrs Daly calls us out into groups for the afternoon activities.

Rowan, Lister and I are all in the same group. Unfortunately for us, Aaron Wills is too. There are ten people per group, and very few of them are Aaron's obnoxious friends, but the lack of cronies only causes him to squawk louder in his constant search for attention.

That's one of the things I've noticed about Aaron Wills, and kids like him - it applies to his older brother too, and to pretty much everyone that's ever made fun of me at school. Most of them just want to be the centre of attention. Generally, they won't go so far as to  _ actually  _ hurt anyone, because they know being annoying will get everyone looking, but being an indisputably bad person will get everyone hating. In short: pick on the easy targets - the queer kid, or the loner, or kid whose blazer is miles too big - just enough to make everyone laugh, but not enough to get you in trouble. Then, when all your brain-dead peers are laughing, sit back and bask in the glory. The easiest way to knock people like Aaron down a peg is to deprive them of attention, and hopefully that will be possible when everyone in our group seems sick of him less than five minutes into the day.

"So, the first thing we'll be doing today is abseiling!" The PGL staff member is incredibly chipper, and seems lovely. "Has anyone done it before?"

A few hands go up, and the two members of staff smile and nod. I glance over at Lister, who is staring up the abseiling tower with a small smile on his face. He looks properly excited for the first time all day.

As the staff run through the various safety rules, I fidget with my sleeves. Aaron's voice is near-constant, gnawing away at the base of my skull. I do my best to ignore him.

Rowan and I are the first two to climb the abseiling tower - Lister was eager, but Mrs Riley wouldn't let him go first. When I reach the top I find myself watching him as the PGL lady (Mel, I think her name is) straps in my harness and explains the rules again. 

Mrs Riley is talking to him, her posture all stern. I can't be certain from this high up, but I'm fairly sure Lister's eyes are rolling back into his skull.

The rest of the afternoon passes by fairly quickly. I realise during abseiling that Lister Bird is, essentially, fearless. I also realise that Aaron Wills is all talk, and essentially a coward. He spends the entirety of the abseiling session shaking and refusing to jump, but whenever he's standing on sturdy ground he's grumbling and making sarky comments at Lister's expense. Somehow, none of the adults seem to ever notice his behaviour, but Mrs Riley scolds Lister the one time he tells Aaron to shut up.

We do the climbing wall next, and Lister is amazing at that as well. We've never had P.E. together, so I've never seen before how athletic he is. I'm impressed, but when I tell him as much he just shrugs me off and turns away. Later, as we're walking to the dining hall for tea, Rowan whispers at me.

"Did you see him smiling?"

"What?"

"When you said he was good at it. He looked really happy."

I didn't see it, which frustrates me. I decide to make it my goal for the rest of this weekend to make him smile again.

**Author's Note:**

> i hope this was ok !! pls let me know what you thought in the comments or on tumblr (@charliespringverse)


End file.
